


The Diary We Carry With Us

by WhisperElmwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes wakes up to find he's at least five years behind everyone else and has no idea why the ex-army doctor looks so devastated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on an Oscar Wilde quote: 'Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.'
> 
> This is a WIP - not sure how long it's going to be. Be prepared for some angst.

**   
**

Sounds drift in first; a heart monitor, close by, so obviously his own, especially if the pain in his head is anything to go by; shuffling feet somewhere far enough away and muffled that it has to be outside the room he’s in; traffic, again far enough away and muffled that he decides whatever building Mycroft has him in this time is on an estate, though perhaps it is simply a private hospital with a longer drive than the typical London NHS.

He can also hear breathing, and because he knows he is in a private room – Mycroft would insist, mostly because Sherlock would cause as much fuss as he could if he were in a shared room – he decides this person is either a visitor or a guard. The breathing is slow and deep, however, which suggests sleep.

Not a guard, then. Mycroft would never employ anyone so lax.

The bed sheets are far too expensive for a rehab facility, but feel utilitarian enough that this must, then, be a private hospital. The sleeping visitor is also leaning on his bed. From the distribution of weight, the person – no, man, going by the deep sound of the light snores – is lying with his arms folded on the mattress, head resting on them. He’s also very close to Sherlock’s left hip, which, if Sherlock had any friends, would suggest someone who knows him and feels comfortable enough to be caught in such a position when the inevitable nurse does their rounds every hour.

It is this confusing detail that forces Sherlock to open his eyes, the better to assess precisely what is going on.

That hurts, which tells him his eyes have been closed for longer than he first thought; his eyes close again almost immediately, the glaring white of the ceiling reflecting the sunlight streaming in through the large window sends a flare of pain through his already sore head. He dismisses the pain though and gives himself a moment to adjust, then lifts his head just enough to look down at the sleeping man.

Sherlock blinks, confused and blaming it on the obvious head-wound he has suffered.

The man is in his late thirties, hair a dusty blond threading with hints of grey and cut almost military short. What skin he can see bares the vestiges of a tan, a work tan, rather than cosmetic, because it doesn’t go below his collar, or his cuffs. He’s wearing an oatmeal coloured, thick woollen jumper, over a light blue button-down - Sherlock turns his head slightly – lived-in blue jeans and scuffed, well-worn work boots.

He’s obviously ex-military, invalided with a wound to the shoulder from the way he’s holding his arms, even in sleep, but the hair-cut isn’t severe enough for recent, nor the tan, nor the wound. He doesn’t understand what the man is doing here, why he’s sleeping on his bed in such a familiar manner, or even how he ended up in hospital again in the first place.

With some thought, the last thing he can remember is – is shooting up again, the third time in a week. Something must have gone wrong; perhaps he fell? Either way, Mycroft must have found him. Sherlock is simply relieved his meddling older brother didn’t force him into rehab again.

The sleeping man stirs and Sherlock watches him, interested for now. He catalogues the way the man moves, the furrows in his brow, and the expression on his face as he realises Sherlock is awake.

That – that expression is not something he expected to see. That expression is mingled relief and joy and something else he can’t put a name to. Why the hell is a complete stranger looking at him like that?

“Sherlock! At last.”

The man leans forward, grasps Sherlock’s left hand with his right in strong, steady fingers, “God, you’ve had me worried-.”

Sherlock tugs his hand hurriedly, or at least as hurriedly as he can with his body almost completely out of his control, out of the strangers and shifts away, confusion and a general lack of consideration for others colouring his reaction. He ignores the shock and fear sparking into life in the man’s features, musters his darkest tone and spits out his question; “Who are you?”

The fear in the man’s features spreads, deepens, and he pales.

****

Mycroft pays him a visit. He looks at least five years older, and more than a little wider, than he did the last time Sherlock saw him; and he means this literally. As no-one has yet explained what is wrong, or why John Watson, his flatmate apparently and ex-military surgeon, looks as if he has been emotionally crushed every time he visits, (and when he does, the man no longer sits so close, or even sits at all, he simply stands at the window, studying the view and listening to the nurse or the doctor as they go about their business, whilst Sherlock ignores everyone,) Sherlock takes Mycroft’s appearance to mean he has lost more memory than he suspected.

A doctor – a Neurologist, Sherlock can tell – enters his room immediately after Mycroft, and following her a moment later, John. The man moves to his customary position by the window, back to the room, body falling easily into ‘at ease’ and Sherlock notices the limp that appeared when he first woke has progressed and the man now leans on a hospital issue walking stick. He eyes him, wondering if the man knows it is psychosomatic; decides he must and then dismisses the thought.

Mycroft takes the seat to his side and very neatly crosses one leg over the other, “Sherlock. You have – ah – deduced, at least in part, what has happened, yes?”

Sherlock watches John’s shoulders tense as Mycroft speaks, then turns to his brother, continuing to ignore the doctor for now. “Obviously. I’m not an imbecile. I have amnesia, though I have yet to figure out precisely how much I have lost.”

Mycroft looks both pleased and saddened, which annoys Sherlock. He growls at him but before he can say anything the doctor speaks up.

“Traumatic Amnesia, Mr Holmes, specifically retrograde,” she explains, and she must be one of Mycroft’s pets, because she’s not looking at him but at her paperwork, ignoring the way he’s glaring at her.

“We can only discern how much you have lost once you answer a few questions. But it is, of course, not entirely as simple as that,” she continues, “You retain some information, specific abilities and learned behaviours, for example. Your prognosis is very good, considering your rapid return to verbal coherency, though your physical condition is still not optimum. This is something your psychiatrist and physiotherapist will explore with you during your treatment.”

She flips a page over on her clip-board, “We will start you on Nimodipine for the trauma and Vasopressin for the memory loss itself.”

It is hard enough knowing that his brain has been injured – his first spoken words upon waking had been slurred, yet still understandable, and his speech has slowly returned to normal over the course of the 48 hours since waking, but his physicality is nowhere near to his usual, he cannot sit without help, let alone stand and ignominy of all ignominies, he needs help to eat – it is harder still to have it all laid out bare before him.

She pauses and Mycroft interrupts, “If I may ask, brother, what is the last date that you remember?”

Sherlock frowns, again noticing the tension in John’s shoulders. He thinks back and gives them the first date he can recall, before the confusion of the drugs made everything that much harder to notice.

Everyone startles at the sudden and loud clatter that turns out to be John’s cane hitting the floor. A second later, the man has stalked from the room, not looking at anyone as he wipes a hand over his face, through his hair. As far as Sherlock can tell, the man had looked – devastated. For an apparent flat mate, this is not exactly expected behaviour, it instead suggests far more; however, Sherlock refuses to contemplate this as it is obviously impossible, he instead files away the information for later perusal and looks to Mycroft.

The expression on his brother’s face is unexpectedly, and incredibly annoyingly, pitying. “What?” he growls out, “How much time have I lost, then? 6 months? A year? Two? Must be a considerable amount, considering the damned atmosphere in here.”

Mycroft clears his throat, “Eight years, Sherlock. You appear to have lost eight years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been doing what research I can to make this at least plausible for a head trauma leading to amnesia - but I reserve my right to artistic license. I'll do what I can to keep it realistic, though :)


	2. Chapter 2

Considering Sherlock last remembers living in a squat in one of the seedier areas of London, with two other addicts no less, he finds it a bit of a shock to be shown to 221B Baker Street, despite having known he was now sharing a flat with John Watson.

He has had three days to get used to the idea that he has lost almost a decade of his life. The Neurologist and Psychiatrist are both optimistic that his memories will return, though, especially as he has already begun to remember the odd snippet here and there. He occasionally gets a flash of something – a face, some words, places. John’s face and voice are most prominent; the man smiling, rolling his eyes, laughing. None of the flashes are terribly helpful in piecing together his mind.

It was decided, for him, by Mycroft and his pets, in a move Sherlock can only call aggravating, that he return to his home as soon as possible, in the understanding that returning to his home should trigger his memory to work again.

He is glad, obviously, to be away from that infernal hospital – he has never liked hospitals, too full of sick people and worrying people and boredom, sheer bloody-minded boredom – but he is moving to a home he doesn’t know, with a man he doesn’t know, in an area of London he rarely visits, with a Landlady who apparently knows him very well but whom he can’t remember. It is all infuriatingly tiresome.

John continues to give him exasperatingly emotion filled looks when he thinks he’s not observed and Sherlock has no idea how to respond, so he doesn’t, simply catalogues the expressions away with the other information he has gathered from the man.

And his skin is itchy, feels a size too small. In his head, he was shooting up and enjoying the high as often as possible only last week, chasing away the boredom and the persistent thinking, his inability to shut his brain off; but apparently he’s been clean and entirely sober for over four years, so it’s psychosomatic. Which doesn’t stop it being maddeningly persistent; so much so that just yesterday, John had breached the apparent walls between them and grabbed his wrist in an extremely firm grip to stop him scratching at his skin in frustration. 

When he had turned a glare on the man, John had simply sighed, told him, “Don’t hurt yourself, Sherlock,” and then carefully let go. For some reason, a reason he has so far refused to delve into, Sherlock actually obeyed the gentle order.

He was apparently in a coma for a handful of days, so it is hardly surprising that he is – for want of another word – wobbly; the doctors had insisted he be wheeled to the waiting taxi when they left the hospital, of all the humiliating experiences!  
However, he allows himself to lean on his flatmate, using the very willing support to get out of the taxi and over the short distance to the front door. 

“She means well,” John says apropos of nothing as he puts the key in the lock. 

Sherlock frowns at him but his questions are answered almost the moment the door is opened. An elderly woman, whom he assumes to be Mrs Hudson, comes quickly out of her ground-floor flat, clutching a wrinkled tissue to her chest, “Oh, Sherlock!” Something about the way she pronounces his name sets his hackles rising, but John, apparently aware of this reaction, grips his wrist again and so he doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind. 

This reaction to John’s interferences is something he is going to have to think about. He isn’t entirely sure he likes it.

John helps him through the door and Mrs Hudson, apparently reacting to his physical weakness, wipes at her eyes, “Oh Sherlock, look what you’ve done to yourself this time! Oh, boys!”

Mrs Hudson only leaves when John has assured her that Sherlock needs rest and quiet, and even then she only leaves reluctantly, glancing back at them both repeatedly. Sherlock allows himself to be manhandled to the stair case, even as John continues to assure the woman that they’ll both be fine and he’ll be down to talk to her as soon as he can.

Turns out, a man with a pronounced limp helping a man who recently came out of a coma - with a good heads height difference between them - up two sets of stairs, is a bit of a struggle. Even with the small landing situated halfway up.

He doesn’t want the help in the slightest, but John continues to prop him up as they open the door to Flat B and then further, through the short hallway where he notices another staircase, through another door and then across the remaining space to a plush looking green leather sofa. Shaking very slightly, his limbs trembling only just noticeably, extremely annoyed at his body for failing him, Sherlock drops onto the comfortable cushions and settles back. 

As his flatmate moves away, shucking his jacket, Sherlock glances around. His mind taking everything in – from the polar-opposite armchairs either side of the fire, the large flat screen telly, the skull - (His skull! He still had it and apparently his flat mate tolerated its existence!) - the mail pinned to the mantelpiece with a blade, the laptops facing each other on the obviously shared desk-space in front of the large front windows, the frankly familiar mess and even the slightly disturbing earphones on the bull’s skull on the wall.

Sherlock blinks, pulls off his scarf and begins to unbutton his coat. The left-hand armchair is obviously John’s, all comfortable curves and faded fabric, worn around the edges. The blanket thrown over the back spoke volumes – though he didn’t think too deeply on them just yet. The right-hand armchair matches the sofa he is currently sitting on and is obviously his own – his taste, his colours and strewn about with the kind of paraphernalia he knows to be his own, even in such an unfamiliar setting.  
He steadfastly does not jump when John appears at his side, offering him a mug of fresh tea and asking; “Are you eating tonight?” 

Pulling his coat off – and he would need to get used to wearing the thing, it’s expensive material, thick and warm and flows pleasingly, certainly not something he had owned… before – Sherlock took the mug and considered. John, rather more patiently than Sherlock expected, took his coat and scarf and hung them both beside his own jacket. 

“I – thank you – yes.” The tea is exactly as he likes it; that combined with the unknown, yet familiar feeling locale and the patience of his flat mate, was unsettling him, forcing him back on the social norms his mother had drilled into him as a child.  
This was apparently strange to John, as the man gave him a confused – bewildered? – unsettled? – strangled? - look before his expression clears and he nods, “I’ll order in Chinese, then.” 

****

Sitting in his room, much later that night, Sherlock listens to John moving around in the room directly above him. Even now, after a restful (boring) night in, the man’s limp is audible through his soft footfalls as he moves around, uses the upstairs bathroom, returns and changes. He listens until he hears John climb into bed and then loses interest and begins to look around his room. 

When he’d come in, attempting to ignore the way John had watched his every move – from the way he was tensed, it was in preparation for a fall, and Sherlock once again hated his body for failing him, especially so visibly – he had glanced quickly around the room before changing into well-worn, very comfortable pyjamas and sitting down, cross legged, in the middle of the freshly made bed.

Now, he allows himself a moment to actually look at the room. His room. A room he has apparently occupied for a number of time. Eighteen months, according to Mycroft. 

Unlike the living room and kitchen, the shared space, it looks too clean. Too tidy. It looks like things are missing. Certificates he both remembers and ones entirely new to him, are on the walls, alongside some framed images. There is no dust, no clutter; his desk appears unused despite his apparently sustaining the injury only a week ago. 

There are a number of boxes, some cardboard, some plastic, all containing either paper-work or evidence bags filled with various objects. His wardrobe, when he’d opened it, had been full, with carefully categorised clothing. His shelves and book shelves are brimming with books and tokens – from what he could see, keep sakes not of sentiment, but particularly interesting cases he must have worked on (the flint arrow head when he had passed his gaze over it, had sparked a memory of wet earth, grass, running through the rain, the feeling of exhilaration and adrenaline pumping into his system, but nothing more than that). 

This room – whilst obviously his – strikes him as unused. It’s too clean to tell for exactly how long it’s gone unused, though. 

Something is going on in this flat, which he has yet to put together. 

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock rolls himself up in his duvet, flicks off the bedside lamp and allowed himself to sleep.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure quite how long this will be, probably not very, but I hope it's an enjoyable ride :)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock wakes with a headache and the day goes downhill from there.

It starts with realizing that the headache – and the itchy, too-tight feeling that has returned to his skin – is stemming from the psychosomatic craving for cocaine. He attempts to very firmly tell his body that he hasn’t used in over five years, but it’s futile at best and the craving persists; much to his extreme frustration and continued irritation.

The next blow to his frame of mind comes in discovering that his motor control still isn’t nearly good enough; he ends up with toothpaste everywhere, including the mirror. This isn’t a vast difference from the usual state of various mirrors in his experience, but usually he’s doing it on purpose or has _some_ reason, however small or absurd. This time, it is an accident and he ends up so ashamed of himself, that as he’s cleaning it off and washing his face, the shame mutates into anger.

Things get worse when he selects a plum coloured shirt, with a billion tiny buttons from the very neat wardrobe – something identifies the shirt as his favourite, though he has no idea what or why – slides it on and then spends five minutes fighting with the too-small, obviously deliberately annoying buttons. After the fifth attempt to button the damn thing – and he hasn’t even considered the cuffs at this point -  in a fit of range and shame, Sherlock snatches it off, balls it up and hurls it at the wall with an extremely heartfelt roar of frustration.

Panting lightly, hands convulsively clenching and releasing, Sherlock takes a moment to collect himself, pushing the anger aside. After a long moment, he roots around in the drawers, digs out a dark coloured t-shirt and pulls it on. It’s too tight and pulls across his chest, under his arms, and rides slightly at the back, which annoys him further. It’s better, however, than fighting with the buttons or – and the very thought of this brings a fresh flush of shame to his cheeks – _asking for help_.

At least now he is presentable, though; the trousers had only the one button and the socks were only slightly problematic, neither causing him much frustration.

Unfortunately, the night’s sleep has done nothing to help his memory, so when he ventures into the shared space, ostensibly to find painkillers, he is almost immediately at a loss. At some point, he realizes, he _will_ actually have to swallow his pride and ask for help, because the feeling of discomfort at not recognising anything, nor knowing where anything is, is almost unbearable.

In an attempt to forestall that eventuality, Sherlock decides to investigate. If nothing else, learning the lay of the land should mean fewer problems when he wants something later on. He starts in the kitchen, as the lack of medication in the bathroom suggests, logically, that this may be the room where one would find some.

There are a selection of human (Caucasian, male, possibly labourers, roughly twenty to thirty years of age) fingers in the fridge.

Fascinating.

Yet not in the least bit helpful.

He closes the fridge and moves on.

After opening every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, Sherlock has found nothing. Though, ‘nothing’ is really a misnomer; he has found, for instance, that he and John use a single set of matching cutlery, crockery and cooking equipment, instead of bits and pieces of two separate sets; that they each have a personal, favourite mug (John’s with his regiment insignia, Sherlock’s impersonal and a simple black); that John buys in bulk, probably to save on expenses, and doesn’t buy frivolously; that they are running low on food, though mostly eggs, milk and jam, and that he was running at least four separate experiments at the time of the attack, one of which has since gone off, with fascinating results.

The last discovery leads Sherlock to believe John has a vast deal of patience, as not even Mycroft, nor even Mummy, would put up with his experiments in the Kitchen. They tended to draw the line at body parts in the fridge, his experiments were always banished to a spare room or the shed.

Also, all the drawer and door slamming has done nothing but exacerbate his headache, so Sherlock moves on to the living-room.

Now that he has the relative luxury to examine the space more closely – while he’s not dazed, far less confused and doesn’t have a land lady’s commiserations or a seventeen stair climb to deal with – Sherlock amends his previous assessment of the room.

As he shifts piles of paper about, slides books aside on shelves (or pulls them out entirely to see what has been stuffed behind them, in one case a silver canteen filled with water, in another a large blade) it comes to him that this is not simply a shared communal area; this room looks, and strangely enough, _feels_ like it is fully owned by them both.

Their separate belongings are easy enough to identify – from his own folders filled with cutting or notes of past cases, handwritten essay notes on soil samples and haphazard nod toward filing, to John’s collection of vintage maps, his entire shelf of well read medical tombs and eclectic CD collection – but they are so intermingled, that any outside observer would think everything co-owned.

This gives rise to a number of implications and conclusions, but Sherlock snorts and shakes his head, as if to clear his mind of the very – _improbable_ – idea.

After a good half an hour of searching – learning far more about his ‘current’ self and his flat mate than a conversation ever could have taught him – Sherlock is finally defeated and he slumps onto the sofa with a disgruntled huff.

“Stop scratching, Sherlock. We already talked about that.”

Of course, it’s only when John – stepping into the room, leaning lightly on his stick, looking ill-slept yet determined, freshly showered and wearing comfortable jeans, a thick jumper pulled on over a red-checked shirt – points it out, that Sherlock realizes that he has indeed been scratching at his interminably itchy skin again.

Sherlock sneers, “If I could find the damned painkillers, I wouldn’t be so distracted in the first place!” Because it’s obviously the fact that his head hurts that he’s completely distracted and unaware of what his own hand is doing. Certainly not the conclusions his mind is drawing, despite his reluctance to give them credence.

John’s eye-roll in reaction to this comment catches him by surprise. People, generally, do not roll their eyes at him. Generally, they tell him to ‘fuck off’, or ‘shut up’, or ‘piss off’, or sometimes they sneer back at him, or ignore him entirely, as if _ignoring_ his existence will actually _negate_ it.

They don’t, as a rule, roll their eyes with an air of amusement, as if they’ve seen it all before and find it all perfectly par for the course.

He narrows his eyes at his flat mate, suspicious and more than a little unsettled. This is beyond his experience and he doesn’t believe it, doesn’t believe that he let his own defences down so much that someone could come to know him even a little, let alone as well as this man apparently does.

For his part, John simply smiles slightly, “I keep them upstairs. You have a bad habit of using them in experiments, so I try to keep a stash safe for emergencies. I’ll go get some.”

Sherlock watches the man limp back up the stairs to the second floor of their flat. He’s intensely curious about the upstairs rooms, but unwilling, yet, to investigate. When John is out, he plans to go upstairs and investigate the man further, sating his curiosity and perhaps learning more about the ex-soldier than he has so far been willing to show.

John’ story about the stash makes logical sense, he admits grudgingly, yet something about the way he said it causes Sherlock to think the man was lying. If only slightly. Why though? Why should John lie about something so inconsequential? What could the lie possibly entail?

The questions bother Sherlock and he catches himself scratching again. He’s broken the delicate skin of his inner forearm, drawn a hint of blood, enough that his finger nails are now tinted scarlet.

“Damn,” he mutters, biting his tongue on the further curses he wants to scold himself with. He climbs to his feet and moves back into the kitchen, runs the cold tap for a moment and sticks his arm under the flow, letting it cool and soothe his sore skin.

After a moment, Sherlock grabs a towel from one of the drawers, slaps it over his reddened, still-bleeding skin and hisses at the sting. The slight pain trips him into verbalising his annoyance, “This entire situation is _beyond_ insane!” He slams the drawer closed again, “ _Nothing_ makes sense! Conflicting data, half truths, no fucking _motor control_.”

As he’s wrapping the towel more securely around his arm, muttering imprecations under his breath, John returns armed with the promised pain killers.

There’s _two_ of them. Not a _box_. Not a _tray_. Two little pills, cupped in John’s square, callused palm. Sherlock seethes.

“Two! _Mycroft_ has you well trained as his lapdog, then!”

John shrugs, “I’m not _Mycroft’s_ anything, Sherlock. I’m a doctor, a _surgeon_ , and with my knowledge of your history, I’ve never been very forthcoming with medication, particularly not addictive medication. You have to be careful and you know very well that it’s your own fault.”

Sherlock stares in disbelief as John places the two pills on the table between them; a quick glance confirms they are the ones prescribed by the hospital, rather than over-the-counter, so as much as he wants to bristle at the implications of John’s little speech, he knows he is right.

If he ignores the slight hint of untruth to John’s statement, pays attention only to the way John has expressed himself, the words he has used, the intention behind them, Sherlock can come to only one conclusion. And it shocks him.

This is _not_ the way people treat him, or act around him. No one _cares_ about Sherlock, certainly not enough to prevent him from harming himself. Yet here is John Watson, acting as if he _does_ care, as if he really gives a damn about Sherlock’s health, as if he would give a damn if Sherlock caused himself harm in some fashion.

He’s acting like a friend, or as much as Sherlock has ever understood a friend would, and Sherlock has absolutely no idea how to proceed. He doesn’t have friends. He has dealers, clients, acquaintances and family. Never friends. Hasn’t since he was in pre-school and hadn’t yet learned that ones peers can be cruel, especially to those considered different. He learned that at about the same time his ‘friends’ did.

When John moves to his side of the table and takes his arm, removes the towel and begins to gently examine the damage with a look of genuine concern on his face, Sherlock is at first unresisting. In silence, he allows John to turn his arm to and fro, even allows him to carefully wipe it down with an antiseptic wipe from the box under the sink. He even listens as John quietly admonishes him.

“You need to be more careful with this. Knowing you, you’ll get distracted by the next experiment or case and forget all about it. Next thing, it’ll be dropping off, and then what?” John pauses and gives him a far more natural smile than all his previous, “Well, then I’ll say ‘ _I told you so_.’”

There’s something he doesn’t comprehend in the slightest in John’s expression then, something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ understand, something that scares him far more than he will ever admit to. Not even to himself.

Without quite thinking about it, in fact not thinking about it at all, Sherlock yanks his arm free and snarls; “Do _not_ touch me, Dr Watson. It is _quite_ enough that I have to put up with your general idiocy, without having your _hands_ all over me as well.”

The moment Sherlock yanked his arm from John’s grip, the man had jumped slightly’ at Sherlock’s venomous words, however, John stiffens, straightens, steps back and away. His previously open, playful expression completely shatters, all emotion wiped clear.

“Take the pills and try not to over exert yourself, Mr Holmes.”

John’s voice is leaden, flat, void of emotion, “If symptoms persist, I’ll give you more when I return.”

With that, John turns and limps away.

Feeling oddly guilty, oddly bereft, Sherlock watches in silence as John, now leaning heavily on his stick, grabs keys, his wallet, shoves his jacket on and then leaves without so much as a backward glance.

When he hears the front door slam downstairs, Sherlock’s shoulders slump slightly.

“Well. That was…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He can’t summon the anger he had been feeling when he threw such invective at his flat mate, for some reason it is entirely gone, replaced by a numbness that he can’t readily explain. And his head still hurts.

He takes the two pills and then stalks back into the living-room, where he snatches John’s blanket off the back of the worn armchair, wraps it around himself and flops inelegantly onto the sofa. He turns until his back is firmly at the room – and the world at large.

He has no idea why, but he’s beginning to feel extremely bad about what just happened, and he’s not at all used to feeling like this.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken longer to get up than expected - computer issues, I've been without one for about three weeks. Anyway, this has plot now! It is no longer directionless! I have an actual plot worked out for it! :D 
> 
> (For anyone reading Testimonial, that's also on it's way :D )


End file.
